


Even If It Takes All Night

by ashiplostatsea



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Punisher Spoilers, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 15:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashiplostatsea/pseuds/ashiplostatsea
Summary: It's been four months since she last saw him at the hospital and life just seems to have continued on. When Karen comes home from work one night, she finds someone asleep in her bed.





	Even If It Takes All Night

 

Even If It Takes All Night.

 

It's been about four months since she last saw him at the hospital. Even now, with this much time between then and now, she's remembering all the similarities from their first official meeting to the time where she thought that'd be the last time she would ever see him. It stings, this thought, because Karen can't quite shake the feeling that maybe this hope is just fool's hope. These doubts come to her on particularly bad nights when the bottle isn't good enough to drown out scenarios that play over and over in her head, how she imagines him, alone, wandering around a groaning city in the gathering dark.

 

It hurts because she's always had a bleeding heart. It hurts because she loves him so much that she's resigned herself to him and only him and she realizes how unhealthy this is. The heart wants what the heart wants and there's no use changing her mind. She thinks that—no, she's certain that her mind's made itself up, too, regarding this.

 

_When did you start loving him?_

 

It's the voice in her head that keeps asking the same question because she's never given an actual answer. She's evaded it as well as she's evaded actually going back to Vermont, despite that one time where she called and her dad told her he still didn't want her there. She'd been afraid of hearing that but was expecting it, no matter how much time had passed since she'd left.

 

If Paxton Page could stubbornly hold onto the memory of his wife, thinking she'd come back in whatever grand delusion he cultivated for himself, then he could hold onto the despair, the grief, the hatred he had for losing a son. She's not called her father back since, though his number is still saved onto her phone.

 

But this isn't about her father. This isn't about Fagan Corners and a life she left behind in what felt like a million years ago.

 

She's home now and there's a chill throughout her apartment, even though none of the windows are opened. Or, at least, she thinks they aren't. There's something in the air that makes her think that maybe there's one that hasn't been closed properly and whatever space is in between the windowpane and the sill is allowing a draft to flow through. She should be more on edge about this, she really should, but she's more tired than anything else. Four months and the only things she's heard about Frank are that the Punisher is taking out the filth that needs killing. He's staining the streets red with their blood, leaving behind piles of bodies in his wake.

 

There's no denying that many people, mostly women and children, are saying they feel safer with him out there, and Karen can't deny this either. On some days, she'll see Matt with fresh bruises and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that he's either had a busy night keeping the city safe or he's run into Frank. Matt doesn't talk about it, never mentions Frank in any capacity in the office, even if she and Foggy knows that he wants to. God, he wants to. He can't help himself, yet he keeps himself in check until they've parted ways for the night, either after staying at the office to finish a particularly tedious case or after a night out at Josie's.

 

On nights that she's there, with both Foggy and Matt, Karen idly wonders what it'd be like if she could go there with Frank. He drinks beer, which is what Josie's got an abundance of, along with a few other choice drinks Karen seems to like or flock to, depending on the night she's having, and then she gets to wondering if he'd be the type to head on over to the jukebox and select a song, maybe something a little rock n' roll or western—or a combination of the two. Wonders if he'd be the type to play a few games of pool, wonders if he's good at it.

 

She gets to thinking about these scenarios, the ones that keep her awake some nights, others where she cries herself to sleep. It's these wants, these desires, these plans she's thought of if things could be a little different. The classic 'what if' because she knows she's accepted him for who and what he is. She's told him as much, confessed it even. And he's out there, somewhere, knowing she said those things that day when she came to see him at the hospital. Neither Matt nor Foggy knew she went, would've probably tried to stop her from going, but when it concerns Frank Castle, Karen Page cannot be detained or held back in any fashion.

 

She turns on a few lamps around the living room, not bothering with the overhead lights because they're too bright and she kind of likes how the rain makes the city look at night; the street and traffic lights painted on the slate asphalt like colours from an abstract painting with its reds and yellows and whatever colours are from the neon signs attached to storefronts. She slips off her shoes and lets out a quiet sigh, rubbing her neck as she goes to the kitchen and takes out a beer from the fridge. She's behind the island now, taking out the bottle opener from the drawer there and uncapping it. Taking a few sips, she walks through her apartment, turning on the television to put on some mindless reality show that she'll keep running in the background while she looks over some files.

 

With one hand, she undoes the clasp and zipper of her pencil skirt and tugs it down, shimmying out of it and places her beer on her dresser so she can pick it up and put it in the laundry basket. There's no light on in her bedroom, and she knows her way around this space like she knows the back of her hand, but that seems to change when she stumbles on a pair of boots, or what she thinks are boots, in the darkness that are situated at the foot of her bed.

 

“Shit,” she curses softly, bending down to pick one up and instantly realizes that these do not belong to her. It takes less than a second for her heart to start racing frantically, less than a second for her to break out in a clammy sweat where her hair is sticking to her temples and she can feel herself starting to tremble. She feels like her stomach's going to drop right out from under her, followed by her heart leaping right out from her ribcage when she's got the wherewithal to feel her way in the dark gloom of her room for the lamp that's on one of the high dressers. The button clicks softly, but to her ears it sounds like a gunshot's just been fired in a quiet space that'll wake whoever's here up.

 

And, just like before, it takes her less than a second for her to calm down at the sight before her.

 

Frank's in her bed, asleep. He's laying on his side and he's breathing evenly, so she doesn't think he's come here because he's been injured. Karen doesn't think he'd come here if he was... then again, there's a lot of things that could've gone through his head and probably thought that she was the closest to where he was at the time. It's a thought for later, something she can maybe ask him when he's awake, if he's even willing to answer—but she deserves it, since he's sleeping in her bed and all.

 

As she's calmed herself down, as her breathing has returned to normal and it feels like her heart won't leap out, she just stands there and watches him. Karen's always known Frank to be vigilant and she wonders if the reason he hasn't startled awake because he senses someone watching him is because he's too tired to do so. She's never seen him rest, not like this, and the few times she's seen him in a bed, he was strapped and handcuffed to one, half dead with bruises and cuts all over him—from what she could discern just by looking at the surface.

 

There's something intimate, however, seeing him like this. He's vulnerable and she lets her mind wander to these thoughts of how he sought out her place because it was safe. Or maybe because he thought she was the only person in this city that wouldn't turn him away, that would still have him in her home. Quietly, she begins to undress, unbuttoning her blouse and hanging it up in the closet. She takes out her hair from the bun it's in and shakes it loose, lets out another sigh as she cards her fingers through the golden locks.

 

She doesn't know that he's awake. Doesn't know that he's looking at her and how he can see her reaching behind to undo the clasp of her bra and lets the straps slide down her shoulders and arms before tossing it in the general direction where she keeps a pile of clothes on the floor. He's looking at her, _really_ looking at her, and sees how her skin takes on this pearlescent hue in the moonlight that manages to break through the storm clouds overhead, how those silvery rays are distorted by the buildup of raindrops on the windows and how they looks like little tiny jewels because of all the lights down below.

 

It hadn't been easy, tired as he was, climbing up the fire escape to the fifth floor. He even remembers which window belonged to her because of the pot of white roses she kept there in what feels like a lifetime ago.

 

She's just standing there, back turned to him, and he can see that she's not doing anything and wonders if she knows he's awake. He feels something stir within him, a feeling and a sensation he hasn't felt in a long while, not like this. It's a yearning, a burning desire that threatens to ignite him from the inside and burn outwards until he's nothing but consumed by it. Karen takes a swig from her beer and disappears into another room—probably the bathroom. She hasn't turned on the lights and he can see, from her silhouette, her figure; her breasts and how soft and supple they must feel, the curve of her waist and her long, slender legs. When she closes the door, that image is obscured by the frosted glass that separates the rooms and he lies there, looking up at the ceiling and how the lights from cars pass overhead like gossamer.

 

She's not in there for long and as the light is on behind her, she can see him a little clearer now. She's pulled on an oversized t-shirt, something she picked up from Georgetown as a souvenir, but never had the thought to actually stay and go there. She doesn't think too much of it since it's something she wears to bed and nothing more. That is, when she's not having a bad night. She gets them too often to know what it feels like going without.

 

The bathroom door isn't closed completely, but left ajar, only just, and the lights have been turned off and her bedroom is bathed in the night light from outside once more. She's too tired to even consider going to the couch and sleeping there, and she shouldn't because this is her bed, this is her home, and she can do whatever she damn well pleases. A sensible person would probably wake him up and tell him to get the hell out, but Karen's not been the most sensible when it concerns Frank.

 

She pads silently over to the bed and takes a corner of the covers and pulls it down so she can slip inside. By now, he must know she's here. And the fact that he's not startled awake or left must also mean something.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs in his deep, gravel voice of his. To many, it's a voice that only death can speak with. To her, it's an odd sort of comfort that she can't find anywhere else and she doesn't want to because she's got it right here. He's here, sleeping in her bed, and he hasn't left.

 

It's got to mean something. It has to.

 

“Hey,” she says back, her voice soft and airy and tired. He knows this because he's tired too. He turns on his side, facing her, and reaches out to cup her jaw, but his hand is so big that he cups that side of her head. His palm is warm against her skin and she thinks she can lose herself in his touch alone. Part of her is afraid to ask what's going on, afraid to break this—whatever this is—and that if she does he'll be gone and she'll be left alone.

 

_We're all just fighting not to be alone._

 

Those words come back to haunt her like an echo that'll never fade. He doesn't know everything about her, but he knows enough that he hadn't judged her or made her feel like she was this innocent person who could do no wrong. He doesn't know about the skeletons in her closet, how she's got these damned secrets locked in the tight confines of her heart—the very kind that she's kept hidden away for so long that putting them out into the open could change who she is. She isn't certain if she'd be ready for a change like that. Wouldn't know who she'd become without it there.

 

“Maybe I should give you a key,” she says softly and he grunts but she can almost see the curve of his lips into what she's convinced is a smirk. “Nah, don't need no key.”

 

His thumb caresses over her cheek and she knows that this isn't some kind of reflex. It's deliberate. He's looking at her, from what she can see in the darkness, with an intense stare that's meant to do more than just make her feel this overwhelmed. He does that. He overwhelms her and there's times where she's left gasping because it's so much but it's the kind of feeling she loves. The kind of feeling she craves because it means he's not entirely pushed her away, despite him always trying to.

 

_Don't throw it all away for me._

 

“Will you be here in the morning?” She asks even though she knows the answer. He won't stay. He can't. She knows the conversations he has in his head about these things. Knows that he'll do whatever it takes to keep her safe, to keep her away from his bullshit and the hell that reigns down in his wake. Truth is, he also has a feeling that Karen can take whatever he dishes out and then some. She's beautiful, brave and strong and so God damn stubborn that it's only a stubbornness that could rival his own. Still, she asks all the same because maybe he might surprise her. Maybe he'll stay and it won't feel like her heart's shattering into a thousand pieces all over again.

 

_Maybe... maybe..._

 

“Get some sleep,” he says and she swears she feels him pull her closer towards him. It's actually not her imagination, because he does, and she tucks her arms in front of her and against his chest. His right arm comes up and around her, embracing her as his fingers slip through her blonde hair and she lets out a content hum. He doesn't have to lean much further to place a kiss on her forehead.

 

It's quiet in her apartment and the only sounds she can hear are the rain hitting her windows and the deep, even breaths of Frank whose got her wrapped up in his arms. She'd be in denial if she said she didn't want this. He knows she does. Maybe some part of her thinks he does too.

 

Maybe, for now, it's enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
